Here’s another comedy sketch for your enjoyment.
Here are ten important facts about me that have led me to abstain from dating. You’re welcome for not foisting myself upon the single straight men of the world.
1. I don’t believe in anything, and I’m not a very good liar. So if I’m the person with you in your last moments on earth, I probably won’t make you feel hopeful or comfortable with your mortality. I might even make you feel worse.
2. I take pleasure in being cranky, and I have no intention of changing this. I revel in my misery.
3. I don’t eat meat or poultry or fish, so steak and seafood restaurants are out. Also, mushrooms make me feel like someone took a fireplace bellows and pumped my stomach with air. It’s unpleasant.
4. I’m allergic to cats and dust and probably my own boogies.
5. I live in Boston, stubbornly, despite despising cold weather and feeling no love for snow. I take sick pleasure in driving maniacally in the city. I love this city. Because I love pain, apparently. It feeds me. I am a study in creative masochism.
6. I form weird alliances with inanimate objects which, when crossed, put you on my enemies list. You must understand and accept my long-standing relationships with: My ancient and wonderful Camry, my grandfather’s steamer trunk, my weird, fluffy grey zip-up cardigan sweater.
7. Sometimes I read great literature and enjoy theater and the arts. But I am not above binging on the worst television ever produced by man. I fall into a trap, lured by dark fascination, then subdued by laziness, schadenfreude, and sense of superiority over the morons that parade across my screen.
8. I might murder you. Sometimes, when I’m sitting in traffic, standing on the subway platform, or sitting in a meeting, I consider what would happen if I randomly murdered someone for no good reason. So far, I haven’t acted on the impulse. So far.
9. I may or may not have bored a snail to death. I live alone with some plants, and an aquarium filled with fish, shrimp, and frogs. I had a snail. He committed suicide after several attempts last year. I think maybe he saw something through the glass that bothered him, but who knows? I was left with a lot of questions. He went out with the trash, since I didn’t think flushing a snail shell would be a good idea. Maybe that was disrespectful.
10. Without coffee, I am nothing. An empty track suit. A social security number and a dental record. A dying house plant. Without my daily coffee ritual, I am unable to hold a conversation with you, or retain any of the syllables that have been thrown in my direction during that time.
When preparing to enter the dating world, it is important to know what you are looking for, and –perhaps more importantly — what you hope to avoid. There are obvious traits that everyone should try to avoid (Pathological liars, violent drug abusers, racists and video-game addicts come to mind).
But I have an additional list of rules for a prospective partner. These are the identifying traits of men with whom I know I will not get along. It’s not meant to offend anyone — We’re each of us special, unique snowflakes with different tastes. But, still: some of the snowflakes are not for me, and it’s better to know that ahead of time. Right? Continue reading
Online Dating Gives me Agita Here’s what happens every time I start to fill out an online profile: I get as far as filling out all of the questions, and then I look at the pictures of prospective dates and feel the need to flee the scene. It’s not that there are not any decent men online. There is a mix of good and bad, like everywhere else. It’s not their fault at all, since I’ve never reached the whole “Talk to online stranger” phase of the transaction. It’s just that I feel like a deli item, on display: “Please do partake of my choice cuts of pastrami.” Is it clear now why men are knocking down my door to get to the wonder that is me?
And so, I ask for your help, dear reader. Share with me your wisdom.
Who am I why am I here and what does it all mean and should this be punctuated?
Other people blog about all of the fabulous, exciting sex that is apparently waiting to be plucked from the tree of life. I should be a cougar, right? I should be sitting at the end of a bar ordering rusty nails and wooing the next generation of Benjamin Braddocks into my lady lair. Why doesn’t that appeal to me? Am I neutered now? Did that happen? Have I become some sort of asexual freak? Aagh. I need to go red lipstick and shiny jumpsuit shopping tomorrow. This shit isn’t funny any more. Continue reading